The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  His lack of discretion had caused him problems from the earliest days of his career, every commander he served under wrestling with Patton’s mouth. Patton’s outspokenness and independent behavior had caused problems as far back as the First World War, and his friendship with Black Jack Pershing had likely allowed Patton’s career to survive many bouts with superior officers who seemed to him to be too obtuse or too inflexible to comprehend Patton’s clear perception of his own role in the army, especially an army at war. He could never grasp why generals insisted he stay at the rear of his troops. Now, that same warning had come from Eisenhower, and Patton quietly chafed at that, knew too much of history, of men like Stonewall Jackson, had never believed any soldier could be inspired from behind. He had learned much from Rommel, had marveled at the German’s instinct for putting himself at the most crucial point of attack. Patton hated the notion that in modern warfare, a general’s place was in some remote command post, reading reports, issuing orders by radio to men who might be far too involved in their own survival to pay attention to any radio.

  Patton believed without doubt that Eisenhower’s command had come about only because the English liked him and accepted him to be the proper figurehead that would fill the difficult role of bridging the two armies, a voice for both American and British concerns. Patton bristled at that, still believed that the British had every intention of running the show, and that any victory would become their own, at the expense of the Americans. One by one, Patton had watched as the senior American generals seemed to be shoved aside, to make way for an Allied force dominated by British commanders. Every branch of the service was run by the British now, what Patton saw as an outrageously blatant conspiracy.

  He had little affection for Wayne Clark and had privately seethed when Clark had been given command of the Fifth Army, no matter that Clark outranked him. But it was no surprise to Patton that Clark had been sent to Morocco as well, stuck in the backwater of the war, while men like Alexander and Anderson controlled operations in Tunisia. If Eisenhower wanted Clark to stay put and keep an eye on some meaningless threat from German-friendly Spanish Morocco, that was fine with Patton.

  His meeting with Fredenhall had been brief and cordial, and Patton had not addressed any of the changes that would follow the man’s departure. Fredenhall was clearly a defeated man, wore a shroud of gloom, something Patton had expected. But Patton had admired the man’s deportment, no outbursts, no grousing, accepting Patton’s occupation of his headquarters with dignity, offering to help the transition in any way Patton found useful. Patton had been polite and gracious, would not add salt to the man’s wounds, and by the next morning Fredenhall was gone.

  NEAR TÉBESSA, TUNISIA—MARCH 10, 1943

  He had ridden forward with Omar Bradley, realized with some annoyance that Bradley seemed to be watching him, studying his performance. After a long silence, Bradley said, “It’s my job, you know.”

  Patton turned toward the side, stared out the car’s window. “I don’t need Ike coddling me, and I don’t need a damned spy in my headquarters. He wants a job done, he should let me do it. You going to tell him every damned thing I say, give him a report on every butt I chew out?”

  “I’m not a schoolmaster, George. You’re being a little too unreasonable. Ike has sent me out here to observe as much as I can. If there’s a problem, he needs to know, so it can be fixed. You know full well there are problems out here. We can’t afford another Kasserine.”

  Patton sniffed, stared out toward a muddy field, tanks parked in uneven rows. He couldn’t really feel anger toward Bradley, knew the man’s exceptional reputation, why Ike had chosen him for the job. Bradley gave every hint of that key instinct that made an officer a good fighting man, a man who could handle himself in the worst crisis. Patton felt that even as they rode quietly through the American positions, visited the camps and command posts. Bradley had something intangible that Patton rarely saw in anyone of high rank. Marshall was an exception, others, such as Ernie Harmon and Jimmy Doolittle, Charles Ryder, and Terry Allen. Patton had felt it for his son-in-law as well, John Waters, the young man still missing in action. They each carried some special thing that commanded respect, and Patton had been surprised to find it in Bradley, the fact that Bradley seemed destined for some role on Eisenhower’s staff.

  “You don’t belong on Ike’s staff. You should be in the field.”

  “I belong where Ike wants me to be. The rest…if there’s something else for me to do, I’ll accept that when the time comes.”

  Patton continued to stare out. “Look at this miserable place. Perfect for a war. Blast everything to hell, and no one will care. You ever see so much damned rain? This whole place is like hell. Everywhere you look, there’s ruins, like damned skeletons sticking in the sand. Roman, mostly, but God knows who else. All those stone pillars, busted columns. Looks like shipwrecks. We just better make damned sure the same thing doesn’t happen to us.” He saw trucks lined in a row, a cluster of men, felt a stab of fury. “Oh, hell. Driver! Stop the car! Hit the siren! Wake those bastards up!”

  The car was slowing, and he pushed open the heavy steel door, stepped out with the car still moving, the blast of the siren propelling him forward.

  “Who’s in charge here?” He saw the officer, a captain, the men all standing back, some staring past him toward the source of the high-pitched siren. “You know me?”

  The captain glanced toward the car, then to the stars on Patton’s helmet. “No, General. But, welcome to the maintenance battalion.”

  “Welcome, hell. Where’s your helmet? Where are their helmets?” He turned to the men, more gathering behind them. He saw some men in wool caps, every shape of hat. “Every one of you! Snatch that beanie off your head!” He glanced behind him, his aides easing up close, Bradley with them, turned to the soldiers again. “Hand them over!”

  The men looked at each other, uncertain, the officer starting to speak, and Patton felt the man’s protest coming, didn’t want to hear it. He raised a hand, silenced the man. “This is your first offense, Captain. Next time, it costs you a fifty-dollar fine. Your men will pay twenty-five. I want to see regulation uniforms on every man in this corps! Every man!”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir. May I ask…does this apply to the men working on the trucks?”

  “Damned right, Captain! They’re soldiers, aren’t they?” Patton stood stiffly, put his hands behind his back, waited. The hats were coming off, the men unsure what to do next, and Patton had no patience now. “Were my orders not understood? Hand those beanies forward and present them to my aide. They are not regulation, and I am confiscating them.”

  The collection of hats gathered in one man’s arms, and he stepped forward, held out the bundle. Patton’s aide took them, returned to the car.

  Patton said, “Helmets and neckties, gentlemen, every damned day. And I want to see some precise salutes from every one of you. The damned British laugh at us for our casual salutes. No more! Your training was not just how to handle a rifle or turn a wrench. You were taught how to salute, and I expect you to remember that. Now, back to work! We have a job to do, and the whole damned United States of America is counting on men like you to get it done.”

  The men snapped to attention, tossed up perfect salutes.

  “Yes, that’s right. Get used to it.”

  Patton returned their salute, spun around, moved back to the car. The aide was waiting, and Patton motioned to him, the man opening the trunk. Patton watched as the hats were tossed in, adding to the growing pile, and he smiled, looked at Bradley, felt the stir of accomplishment.

  “You see, Brad? This is what we have to do. I won’t have the Second Corps remembered for their pile of beanies.”

  “But, George, fining them so much money for their uniforms?”

  Patton was surprised by Bradley’s question, thought, wonderful, already he’s making a list for Ike to gripe at me about. Schoolmaster indeed.

  “Listen to me, Brad. Th
is is my corps and I’ll run it in the best way I know how. I could spend every hour of this inspection tour yelling my lungs out, and it would work for only so long. Hell, I’d run out of breath. But hit them in the pocketbook! Hah! You don’t have to say another word. And they’ll damned well remember it.”

  They climbed into the car, the armored trucks moving out in front, machine guns trained forward, lookouts scanning the thick, gray sky for enemy planes. They rode for a long mile, the rains coming hard again, Patton scanning the countryside, heavy mist clouding his view. He went over the command list in his head, three divisions of infantry, the First, the Ninth, the Thirty-fourth, plus the First Armored. Good men, all of them. Four strong divisions. Just let us go, Ike. Let me give them another crack at Rommel. They’ll stuff all that bellyaching from here to Washington.

  P atton spent long hours with Bradley, going over the commands of each of his divisions, the best talents of the men in charge. There was little time for lengthy planning, rehearsal exercises, and less time for Patton to test the abilities of various officers for the key jobs in the command structure of the Second Corps. To the south, Montgomery was gearing up for his major push into the Mareth line, and Patton’s role had been defined even before he took command, in plans drawn up by Eisenhower and Alexander not long after Rommel had pulled away from Kasserine.

  Throughout their discussions, Bradley’s grasp of the necessary strategies continued to impress Patton, a quiet confidence and firm hold on sound tactics, something Patton had not yet seen in too many of his senior officers. With Bradley staying mostly in Patton’s headquarters, filling his role as Eisenhower’s pipeline, Patton realized that there should be an opportunity for Bradley’s talents to be used for far more practical purposes. Patton’s next call to Eisenhower was simple and direct. If Bradley was to spend most of his time occupying space in Patton’s headquarters, he should have something better to do. Patton wanted Bradley for himself. To Patton’s surprise, Eisenhower consented. However, the assignment had been no real surprise to Bradley since, unknown to Patton, he and Eisenhower had already discussed such a move. Though Bradley would occasionally issue reports directly to Eisenhower, make visits to Algiers for personal meetings, he would do so as the Second Corps’s number two man. At the very least, Bradley would gain experience, learn the valuable lessons firsthand from the inevitable combat situations the Second Corps was soon to face. And Eisenhower was aware that Bradley would bring a quiet ray of calm and reason through the often tumultuous world of George Patton.

  DJEBEL KOUIF, TUNISIA—MARCH 13, 1943

  “Ike says I should find something useful for you to do every day, if that’s possible. I’m not talking too much out of turn there. He says you’ll probably tell me that yourself.”

  Patton walked slowly, kept pace with Alexander’s methodical stride. “He’s right. I’m ready to go. We’re all ready to go. And if it’s up to me, we’ll keep going until we give Rommel a wet ass in the Mediterranean.”

  Alexander laughed, and Patton eyed him discreetly, thought, he’s as British as they come. And yet…not. Curious. Alexander stopped, and Patton saw him staring out across the dirt road, saw an Arab man hoisting a water jug up onto the shoulder of a small woman. Alexander made a grunting sound, and Patton said, “Arab chivalry.”

  “Perhaps you and I should go over there and jolly well kick his ass.”

  Patton stared at Alexander for a long moment, saw no smile, thought, my God, he might be serious.

  Alexander began to walk again. “Or, perhaps not. Might not play well in the newspapers, eh?”

  Patton laughed, was surprised by Alexander, had not expected the man to be anything more than an arrogant snob. He kept pace again. “Ike would enjoy unraveling that one, I’m sure. He’s already convinced I’m going to wake up one morning and start shelling Anderson’s headquarters.”

  Alexander seemed surprised himself now. “Good gracious, man, why on earth would you do that?”

  Patton’s mind filled with replies, none of them worth the price he might pay for expressing them. “I promise, not in this war. Ike worries too much. Just his job, I suppose. My job is to put my foot in people’s backsides, so they’ll do the same to the Krauts.”

  Alexander thought a moment. “Your promotion…I assume you received my congratulations. Bloody well appropriate.”

  “Yes, thank you. Your General McCreery sent a very nice note. I’d heard a lot of talk about it, and frankly, I expected it before now. It’s a dream I’ve had, since I was a boy. I used to play army, run all over hell and gone with a wooden rifle, calling myself Lieutenant General Patton. At West Point, I told a few fellows I’d make it one day. Nobody doubted it. Well, not me, anyway.”

  Alexander was watching him, and Patton realized he was listening carefully to every word. “That all right with you? If a man feels like he deserves something, it should be all right if he expects it.”

  Alexander laughed now. “No argument here, old chap. Ike says your promotion is well earned. And of course, if you’re to command a corps, three stars is the appropriate rank for an American in your position.”

  “Four is better.”

  Alexander seemed to study him again, serious now. “You’ll get it too. I’d make a wager, if I could. Trouble is, nobody would pay up. I might have a thing or two to say about the promotion. Never know, of course.”

  They walked down a short hill, past Arab women gathered at a muddy water hole, piles of white cloth spread out on fat rocks. It was unusual for a senior commander to simply take a stroll, out beyond the confines of the headquarters. Alexander had made it clear that he relied as much on private chats as he did on grand staff meetings, spoke more frankly than any other British officer Patton had met. Patton didn’t trust it at first, couldn’t help wondering if Alexander was doing what so many of the other Brits seemed to do, gather influence, find ways to push the Americans to the back row of the war. He knew Eisenhower didn’t agree with that, thought, all right, Ike, I’ll do it your way. He had accepted Eisenhower’s order, that no one could openly criticize anyone by his nationality. It was one thing to criticize a man for being a son of a bitch. But you had better not call him a British son of a bitch.

  But there was nothing disagreeable about Alexander at all, and Patton had been impressed with the man’s record in the First World War, something Patton could share with pride. Both men had been decorated, and both had suffered wounds in combat. To Patton, that put them firmly on equal ground.

  They walked in silence for a long moment, and Patton felt the question rising in his mind, the last detail of the plans he had already memorized, the one thing Alexander had not yet told him.

  “Are we still a go for the sixteenth?”

  “Likely. Sorry to be so vague about it. It’s this damnable weather. The plan is in place, has been since before you got here. You know that, of course. You’ve met with all your commanders?”

  “Yep. Good men, I think. Still some proving to do. Terry Allen’s probably the best of the four.”

  “Yes, well, Ike agrees. Your plans call for his First Division to lead the way into Gafsa.”

  Patton had studied the plans, the maps, understood exactly what he was expected to do. And he wasn’t happy about it. “You honestly expect that if my boys kick the Krauts off the Eastern Dorsale, they’re going to listen to an order to stop?”

  “Yes, I do. So does Ike.”

  Patton swallowed his protest, and Alexander said, “Monty’s got his people in line, ready to go. But he can’t make his jump-off until your people accomplish their mission. Your part of this operation is essential. You have to drive the Germans out of the hills and push the attack toward their flank. They’ll have to respond to you by pulling strength out of their main line. They can’t allow you to hover about in their left and rear and not send some pretty strong forces your way to answer the threat. That’s all Monty needs to make the breakthrough and drive the enemy back up the coast.” Alexander paused, looked h
im hard in the eye. “If you try to push your men east of the Eastern Dorsale, if you try to make for the coast to cut off the enemy’s retreat, you know what can happen. You’ll be spread out on a dangerous line across flat, open ground, vulnerable as hell on your flank. We don’t know what the Germans have left in their bag at Mareth, not completely anyway. This is not Monty’s operation, but it is laid out so that Monty makes the hardest thrust. Surely you understand why.”

  Patton knew the word, experience, hated it, hated that Montgomery had been successful against Rommel, while the Americans had made such a poor showing at Kasserine. There was no argument Patton could make, he had to accept the grinding truth that Montgomery’s forces were better prepared to launch the strongest part of the offensive. But he hated it anyway.

  O n March 16, Patton’s men pushed south and east, drove the Italian outposts away from Gafsa with barely a fight. The other prongs of the Second Corps moved along parallel routes, the First Armored eventually driving up toward the passes along the Eastern Dorsale. The attack spread across the entire front where, a month before, Rommel’s attack had so devastated the Americans. In a few short days, Patton occupied most of the ground that Rommel’s troops had now abandoned, the crossroads and villages falling into American hands. From Sbiba and Fondouk in the north, down through Kasserine and Sidi Bou Zid, to Sbeïtla and Gafsa, the Second Corps pressed hard against growing enemy pressure, more and more of the German and Italian forces sent up from Mareth to hold them back. The fighting grew more brutal, the passes that led up through the Eastern Dorsale manned by German armor, thick minefields, heavy artillery stripped from their positions at Mareth. Despite the difficulty the Americans had in pushing their way completely up and over the Eastern Dorsale, the effect on the enemy’s position at Mareth was precisely what Eisenhower had hoped for.